Ocean Rain
by Silent Assassin mk.1
Summary: Alone with his thoughts, Cloud ruminates on lost love and the futility of life. Oneshot.


As I'm a little blocked with my other fics, I thought I'd produce something short to ensure that I could still write if I felt inclined to do so. I'm testing the water here, so go easy on me with the criticism. This is my first attempt at a oneshot, after all. And there is at least one monumental spoiler in here, so if you haven't played Final Fantasy 7 and want to be surprised when said events occur in the game, you really should not be here. I don't want any death threats from disenfranchised readers, okay?

Right, on with the story. Enjoy!

_**Ocean Rain**_

The sleek black motorcycle grinds to a halt at the base of the rock, the tire producing clouds of dust as it spins to a standstill. As I dismount from the metallic contraption, wandering over to the edge of the cliff overlooking the dense sea of skyscrapers and lengthy shopping promenades, I feel a dampness in the air, and a single drop of water lands on my glove. It impacts surreptitiously - not the elaborate wave of water so beloved of the media, but a tiny pool of rainwater which dissolves into the leather leaving only a shaded mark. The dampness turns into a shower, hissing as it beats down into the grey sand with furious abandon.

Ever since I was a child, for as long as I can remember, I've been very much in love with the idea of a tortured soul. I'm sure the environment I was raised in was significant in shaping my character; due to the absence of a father figure to influence the way I developed, to guide me through the perils of adolescence, I often isolated myself from society to retreat into the safety of my own fabricated existence. It wasn't that I was an inhibited character, but the world I created in my head was far easier to exist in than the socially-minded youth culture where I grew up. Sure, Nibelheim's sparse population didn't give the small community bragging rights on the world stage, but as a stoic teenager who tended to cope better with challenges which weren't avoidable, it was large enough to drive me away from the cliques hanging by the mountain path.

I developed a fascination with this introverted character without realising my own personality was shifting to match it. As with all interests, it started on a smaller scale; delving into the pulp magazines imported into the town from prosperous cities, lovingly clad in brown paper and stashed away in neat piles at the back of the gift shop. The situations were renowned almost as much for their reliance on suspension of disbelief as for the increasingly less credible situations they presented the reader, but that wasn't what fascinated me. Unlike the bored postal workers who flicked through them while propped against the well or loitering by the town entrance - whose raised eyebrows suggested that, while they appeared to be remarking at the improbability of it all, they secretly believed it - I read between the lines, realising the writers had made something that was far more than a throwaway novelty, even if it didn't immediately appear so.

Their protagonists often fell between similar stylistic boundaries - dressed in grey, faded shirts with brown hats obscuring their eyes, astride pedigree-bred chocobos which raced through the desert at high speed with a mere jerk of the reins - but the quiet indifference masked anguished spirits who relentlessly tried to escape the demons in their heads. Alone, with only themselves to fend for, their attitude was icy and passionless but obscured the character within, a character which was often the polar opposite of their insensitive demeanour.

But human nature often affects us in ways others are aware of, yet we ourselves are blind to. Unconscious that my personality had already shaped itself according to the literature I had immersed myself in, I continued to idealise and romanticise the idea, and when the time came to depart in search of a vocation, I had already mapped out my future. I still didn't realise, even after it was too late to continue with my preconstructed life, that destiny had its own plans for me, and regardless of my tampering, my life would organise itself. Ingratiating myself into the ranks of SOLDIER, never to rise to the prominence I yearned as a child, told me for a while that I was pursuing the right way of life. And when Zack was thrust into the picture, it appeared to be fate's way of guiding my development - to me, he was the embodiment of every characteristic I was trying to mimic. While he appeared more sociable than most of the lone rangers I wanted to emulate, in essence he was one of those characters ripped from the pages and transplanted to real life.

Almost as soon as he had appeared on the scene, he was brutally erased, and consumed with hatred and a desire to right my personal wrongs, I vowed that I would fill the void he left in the world. I would continue his existence as part of my own - knowing that this allowed me to tailor my life by replacing all the parts I hated with aspects of his life I held in high regard.

Then I met her. The one who gave life meaning, reminded me that life entailed more than the frantic collection of funds to make ends meet. The one who gave me purpose, hope, something to look forward to - even if she didn't realise she was influencing the way I acted, took on life's struggles and what I bore in mind when it seemed like there was no point. I'd never thought about or experienced love before; upon induction into SOLDIER, I chose to undergo psychotherapy to eliminate any interests in romance, and I continued to spend most of my time alone when it were possible. For being stupid enough to believe that love was a frivolous pastime a person didn't have to participate in if they didn't think it important, I deserved to be afflicted with it.

I cast my gaze toward the ocean, a thick carpet of black surf just beyond the orange glow of streetlights, lazily washing over the shore. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the tall, slender structure of church spire, protruding through the forest of silver buildings.

It was in that church that she and I were first acquainted. I'm keen to stress that it wasn't love at first sight, something which is often misrepresented by the everyday person - in fact, I wasn't even aware that I saw her in a different light to the few people I knew personally. It wasn't necessarily affection, and it wasn't really an infatuation either, but with almost every obstacle life presented to me after that I found her at the back of my mind. Most importantly, though, I suddenly realised that my own priorities didn't concern my well-being all the time - self-indulgence had fallen by the wayside, replaced with a new-found appreciation for the desires of others.

Perhaps thinking it had been too generous to me, fate decided to deprive me of the one thing which made me happy, returning me to the same sorry state I was previously. When I close my eyes, I still see the glint of ethereal light reflecting off reinforced steel as the blade descends seemingly from heaven, in a cruel twist that would appear ironic if it weren't so distressing. And in a second, she was snatched from my grasp, my complacency contemplated for with cold calculation. A moment my conscience will never let me forget - was it because I took her for granted? Should I have thrust myself in the way to protect her? The one time I was presented with a decision in which I could exhibit my care for her, I failed to do so. And it's too late to go back and replay it.

My life has descended into directionless banality since then. I survive by roving endlessly around the open plains, stopping only for a drink from my canteen or to I continue my relentless pursuit through the vacant dustbowl of Midgar in the vain hope that, if I can hang on to the tiniest thread of hope, I might be able to meet her again. But I think that hope vanished long ago, consigning me to my lonely and futile existence, searching for a meaning that I once knew but may never have again. Swivelling my leg over the other side of the bike, alone with personal torment I never thought I'd experience, I realise that I've never been more like the figure I idolised as a careless youth.

It's nothing like I imagined it.

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Thanks to Ian McCulloch and his cohorts for helping me come up with a title. And no, it doesn't have any relevance to the piece.

So, like it? Hate it? Think I'm a total asshole? Review it, otherwise I'll never know what you think!


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